@sharpstarshooter
The bulk of Flatt’s clothes lay in a pile on the sand, gathering grains. He propped his hands on his hips, puffing out his chest. He’d managed to purchase a set of offensively loud swim trunks and he intended to take full advantage of them.
He’d grown up in Monaco, not far from the water. But his parents shipped him to London when he was 10, and while England was an island, it just wasn’t the same.
He assessed the area. There was a short pier stretching out into the ocean. It was largely empty. With a grin, he took off running. The sand made it difficult to build up speed but by the time he reached the wood he was moving at a respectable place. He jumped off the end and tucked his knees in close. “CANON BALL!” The resulting splash hit everyone in the immediate area. Not that their glares would stop him. He waded back to the shore, set on a repeat performance.
